Just FACE It
by CheeseCakeKitty15
Summary: France, America, Canada and England: probably not too far off from being one of the worlds most dysfunctional families. Still, despite their numerous mishaps and differences, no one can deny that the situations they can get up to can be...odd to say the very least. A collection of FACE family oneshots. Stories will go up to rating T.
1. Canadian Please

**Hey Guys and Gals, CheeseCakeKitty15 here and back** _ **yet again**_ **with another Hetalia story because in the anime community, you do not find Hetalia, Hetalia finds you. So, I absolutely love the FACE family (that's France, America, Canada and England if you have been living under a rock, or alternatively, one of England's scones), their relationship and shenanigans they get up to on a daily basis. I thought that this would be a perfect basis for a collection of oneshots so I'm gonna give it a go!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. If I did, this awesome misfit family would get more screen time together.**

 **Without further ado, let's get on with the story!**

 **Story One: Canadian Please**

"You sure this is gonna work on him?"

"Don't worry about it, everything has just slid perfectly into place."

"Yeah, but still, Mr. Honhonhon isn't as stupid as he looks!"

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Bloody hell, I can't believe I let you two twits drag me into this…"

A churning stomach, pounding headache and an overall drowsy state of mind were the last things someone wanted to wake up to at five in the morning. Yet, today appeared to be the _one day_ where this would happen to a certain Frenchman after a long and, um, _unique_ night of drinking with Spain and Prussia. His glossy blond hair was a mess and clouded his already hazy vision as he slowly cracked open a single eye after what had to be the tenth time of trying to get back to sleep. He lazily reached around on his bedside table for a hairband to tie the tangled atrocity back and, after knocking over numerous plants, glasses and a growing collection of other miscellaneous items, France finally discovered a delicate one made of soft blue satin.

"Oui, this'll do for now I suppose…" he whispered to himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stumbling over towards the stairs.

As you can imagine, the nation ended up tumbling down said stairs with all the grace and beauty of a dying pig, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Dusting himself off, he outwardly sighed in exasperation and make his way to the kitchen where his two phones had been charging for the night. They both displayed two different times as a result of the frequent travelling that France did, but at this point it was too early and he was too tired to care about minor imperfections like that. Quickly grabbing a baguette, chopping it into multiple slices and then buttering all of them individually, he dropped them all into a small woven basket and slunk to his large sofa.

He switched on the TV, randomly flicking through the seemingly endless channels before settling on a romantic game show and nestling between the cushions. Turning the volume down to a setting that preferably _wouldn't_ absolutely destroy his ears in his delirium, France grabbed a small piece of baguette and made himself comfortable in a position which he was sure he wouldn't move from in the next couple of hours at least.

" _Bon, I could get used to this!"_ He thought with a smile, fixating his eyes to the screen and stuffing another piece of food in his mouth, _"Ah, this is the life…"_

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit room (complete with spinning chairs, cats and dramatic red lighting), three blond men crowded around three small electronic items, faces basking in the glow emitting from their screens. They sadistically giggled in unison like malevolent spirits, turning to each other and whispering words of misery and deception. Each man pressed a small button on their devices and proceeded to get many other pieces of equipment prepared for what was to come following the next events which were to take place that morning.

"Well then, you damn frog, enjoy the show…"

Perhaps France had gotten a little too comfortable, perhaps he had eaten one too many baguette pieces, perhaps he had watched a little too much romantic game shows; either way, he was getting slightly drowsy. His head kept drooping into the soft expanse of the pillow and he found himself loosing focus. Despite this, the blond was determined to stay awake and attempt to get over his stinking hangover, and, so far, he was doing a pretty good job of it. He had kept away from his long list of disliked music, the volume was at a preferred setting, not one person had come a-knocking at the door, and no work had to be done.

Suddenly, an _incredibly loud_ drumbeat started making itself known from the kitchen, followed by swift finger clicks that resonated throughout the house. France had to cover his ears in desperation when a clearly edited and shrill female voice broke through the noise, yelling about how she apparently knows that he wants to be Canadian.

"Non….it can't be…not this song…I have to turn…it off!" the Frenchman groaned, still covering his ears and shuffling to the phone to see who was calling. It was America, so he tried to pick up the call. However, that only made the music play louder and louder and louder until it was almost unbearable. As if things could not get any worse, the second phone had also just begun to play the same song on an even less tolerable volume, with the same outcome as the first if he picked up.

France scrambled around the place for a pair of headphones to dull the continuous clatter of Canada's redeeming qualities that seemed to go on forever on an endless loop.

"Make it stop… Please make it stop!" he yelled at the top of his lungs as the house, upstairs and living room phones begun to blast the music to the world. The man also momentarily thanked his lucky stars that he didn't have neighbours because otherwise he would surely not hear the end of it, before ripping the house phone from the wall and hitting it with the nearest available object until it shattered.

Just as he was about to embark upstairs to destroy a few more expensive objects, the music abruptly cut off and was replaced by the sound of three all-too-familiar voices laughing as if there was no tomorrow.

"Dude!" America giggled, barely containing his laughter, "That was so funny!"

"I do have to admit, that was one of your more intelligent schemes." France could practically _hear_ England shrugging his shoulders in defeat and raising his hands to the sky. He swore he could have heard Canada manically in the background like a crazed man whilst the other two begun to argue over seemingly nothing in particular.

"Excuse moi?" France begun, raising his voice just enough to put an end to the other nation's yelling.

"Yeah?" America had quietened down quite a bit, most likely a result of England slapping his hand over his mouth, as well as Canada whose laughs had been reduced to small, hasty breaths. There was an awkward pause for a few seconds, the only sound being quiet sighs on either end of the line, creating unnecessary tension between the four.

"You owe me a new phone by the way."

"Oh…"

"Whoops."

"You bloody git, really didn't think that one through, did you?"

 **So, there we have it guys and gals, we have reached the end of our first story! I hope you liked it! As always, said reviews are always appreciated, but no flames please (if you are that intent on roasting marshmallows, please do so elsewhere)! Thank you so much for reading and I'll see you next time! Ciao!**


	2. Specs and Small Talk

**Hey Guys and Gals, CheeseCakeKitty15 here back again with another mini-story for this Hetalia collection because A. I need to teach myself how to not procrastinate all the time and B. Why the potato not? Also, just thought I should say a quick thank you to the lovely people who have already followed, favourited and reviewed. I'm glad who liked what you read! I came up with this one just now actually and thought, "Let's do this!" so here we are!**

 **Disclaimer: I still don't own Hetalia. If I did, there would be fluff. Lots of fluff.**

 **Without further ado, let's get on with the story!**

 **Story Two: Specs and Small Talk**

Looking in the mirror that morning, America could tell that something was little off. He had spent at least half an hour posing in front of the reflective sheet to see if it was just the angle that needed repairing, but no. Either way, he still looked like a distorted mess, that is, if he wasn't one already.

Whipping off his glasses, he finally noticed the problem. Without them on, although everything seemed like a fuzzy blur and it was difficult to make out objects, his vision was considerably better than it had been a mere few seconds ago. For a few minutes, he switched between having the contraptions on and off, noting the difference with a heavy sigh.

Reaching for his phone which was sitting on the sink, he swiftly flicked through his contacts, selected a number and pressed the call button. After about three rings, the recipient of the call picked up. America swore he could have made out multiple yawns that were being muffled with a pillow before he heard the other's voice.

"Hello…" England sighed tiredly, "What do you want? I only just woke up."

"Seriously dude?" the American replied in surprise, "It's, like, one in the afternoon where you are. What happened? You're usually more… Um... What's the word?"

"Diligent?"

"Yeah! So anyway, why do you sound so sleepy?"

The Brit audibly rubbed his eyes and buried his face further into the pillow, spreading his messy blond hair all over it. "I had a lot of stuff to do last night. Paperwork, phone calls, a load of important things like that. Not to mention that I had to throw away all those tiny, empty bottles and shot glasses. They can really get…"

"Wait a sec!" America interrupted loudly, before his voice descended into a mildly sly undertone, "I thought you said that you were…"

"Yes?" England groaned, knowing full well what was going to be said next, thus resorting to practically smashing his head against the pillow.

"Not throwing away your shot!" the overly enthusiastic sing-song tone sang from across the line. He giggled as his former caretaker struggled against the power of references. Once the noise had died down slightly, America decided to speak about the very matter that he had been calling to inquire about in the first place.

"So anyway, I called you because I need some advice on something."

"You do? It seems like forever since you did that." The other man said softly, drifting into a brief state of dreaminess, a smile lacing his lips, before hastily snapping out of it, "What is it?"

"You see, something went wrong with my glasses. Instead of improving my vision they're just making everything fuzzy, kind of like seeing the world through a dirty window. What's wrong with them?"

"As to the problem itself, I'm honestly not sure. You may need a stronger or weaker prescription though, so you might want to go get your eyes checked again. How does that sound?"

"Hmm, good." The American boy responded after messily scribbling down everything England had said in a little blue notebook, "Do you think I should go do that now?"

"Defiantly, sooner rather than later I guess. Means you have the rest of the day to do what you like, so you have something to look forward to."

"Cool. I'll go get ready!"

Taking the phone away from his ear, America was just about to sprint like a bank robber out of the room when he heard a quaint little whisper from the small device. "Dude, what was that?"

"Umm… Can you put me on loudspeaker? I want to talk to you a bit more. Gets a bit lonely over here, you know?"

Safe to say, the younger male was more than a little taken aback by that answer. _"Maybe it's because he only just woke up and he's feeling a bit clingy."_ He thought with a smile.

"Sure!"

As America fixed himself breakfast and dealt with every other daily morning struggle, the pair chatted in bliss for the next few hours about almost anything. It was as if time itself had been forgotten and there was nothing left in the world except the two of them. The whole glasses issue had not been bought up once, so they remained in a happy state of unawareness.

America would only remember that he still could see next to nothing when England finally announced that it was late and he had some work to do, with the bespectacled boy's parting words to him being: "Just don't overwork yourself, old man!". Walking headfirst into the side of the shed wasn't really the best way to end a day, but the conversation throughout it had been well worth it.

 **So, there we have it guys and gals, we have reached the end of our second short story! I hope that you liked it! Apologies if anybody was OOC or I waffled a little, I always do that! Also, if you got the not-so-subtle reference I snuck in there, please help yourself to a cookie! As usual, I would appreciate it if you dropped me a favourite or left a review as they make me smile and I always like to see how I can improve my writing! Constructive criticism is always welcome, but no flames please because I do not want to accidently set something or someone on fire (I would most defiantly** _ **not**_ **know how to deal with that). That's all from me for now, so I shall see you next time! Ciao!**


	3. What Does Love Feel Like?

**Hey Guys and Gals, CheeseCakeKitty15 here back again with another Hetalia short story! Once again, thank you to the lovely people who have followed or reviewed or favourited; it gives me such great motivation to continue knowing that people enjoy what I'm doing. I came up with this one as I was writing the last chapter and I hope that you guys like it!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. If I did, Norway and England would have had an awesome magic battle by now.**

 **Without further ado, let's get on with the story!**

 **Story Three: What Does Love Feel Like?**

Sitting by the fire with a hot chocolate in hand in a cold harsh Winter's evening was one of Canada's favourite things to do, especially when he was huddled up in a blanket with the three other people he cared about most in the world. The last meeting had been held in his home country, and, since all the flights had been cancelled due to the ridiculous level of snow and rainfall, he decided to let his brothers stay until the weather cleared up.

So there he was, curled up on the right side of the sofa next to France, everyone in huge soft blankets, whilst America sat on the left, letting a dozing England rest his head on his shoulder. The crimson flames of the fire licked around the wood it was burning off, in turn forming tiny sparks that flew forward onto the red carpet before dissolving into nothingness. The only sounds that could be heard was the embers eating away at logs and the tea-drinking nations soft snoring which was barely even noticeable.

They sat in silence for a while, just enjoying each other's company, when Canada remembered something that he had been meaning to ask for quite a while now. It would be slightly awkward to say to anybody else, but he knew that they wouldn't judge or question him, not in a special and rare moment like this.

He cleared his throat, gaining the attention of America and France, which in turn stirred England from his slumber. He felt a strand of the Frenchman's hair brush daintily against his face as he turned his head to look at him.

"Is there something bothering you Canada?" the long-haired man asked, blinking his big blue eyes at the younger nation in confusion. He shifted slightly so that America got a clear view of his younger brothers face without disturbing England too much, only getting a small groan of discomfort before he adjusted his position a little so that he could be comfortable again.

"I was just wondering…" the wavy-haired boy began, feeling his face flush scarlet from embarrassment, "But what does love feel like?"

There was a little pause in the room as the countries present collected their thoughts for a couple of seconds. It was a rather odd topic to just go and bring up out of the blue, so no one really knew how to react, kind of just sitting there dumbstruck with matching expressions on their faces (except England, he was still half-asleep).

"And by that, I'm talking about it as in falling in love with another person, so not like a family or parental love in that sense of the word. I mean, don't get me wrong," Canada continued in a quieter voice, "I understand that it's different for each person, but I'm just curious.".

"In my opinion," France started, twirling a lock of hair around his finger, "it's like meeting someone who gives your life meaning and, when you're around them, you feel invincible. Sometimes, it comes with an overwhelming desire to be with and protect that someone forever and ever. For example, imagine being blind, deaf and constantly numb, like you can't really _feel_ anything. Then when you meet them, it's like seeing a rainbow for the first time, like hearing music and being overflooded with emotions all in the same moment." He sighed contently and laid his head on the pillow behind him, "It's so beautiful and dangerous, yet we all want to feel it to some degree. However, I have said it once and I'll say it again, love isn't something that should be forced on people, no matter how much you want it."

With his tangent over, France sunk back into the sofa, cuddling into his blanket and pulling it up so only his eyes were peeking out over the top. He glanced over to Canada, who had clearly not been expecting more than a single sentence on the subject. Then again, this _was_ the nation of love he was talking about here, so what else was he to expect?

"Well I think that it's a feeling of attachment!" America spoke suddenly, making all the occupants of the room jump at the sudden loud noise, "Ya know, like when you see them or get to know them your stomach does backflips and you get really exited! Lots of people talk to their best friend and ask what they should do, to which the best friend's reaction usually is something to the effects of telling them to chill. I heard that it makes people super happy so that's why people look for it!"

"You paint it in such a positive light." Canada pointed out, putting a slim finger to his lips, "But lots of people say it hurts, like all the people who sing Pop songs. They're constantly going on about how painful love is, and I don't understand it. What could possibly be so horrible if everyone seems to enjoy it so much? What is the worst part of love?"

"It's being so close to somebody, yet knowing that you could never have them." A quiet voice whispered. Everybody turned their heads to look at England, who had just spoken for the first time since what had to be the meeting earlier that day. He dropped off America's shoulder and let himself fall into a big pillow which he then proceeded to snuggle into. A blanket was still draped round him as if it were a cloak.

"Woah dude." America said in awe, "That was deep. You still tired from yesterday?"

"What do you bloody think? _You're_ the one who called me at twelve at night to have another full-blown discussion about nothing in particular even after we did so for practically the entire day." Was the muffled reply he got from the island nation in front of him. America felt all eyes in the room turn to him while he looked down at his feet in mock shame.

"Really Amerique?"

"I always knew you were persistent, but that's overdoing it."

"Yeah, well…" the boy began, running a hand through his hair in a failed attempt to tame it, "My glasses were being super weird and I can't exactly walk around all day half blind."

"You have a point there." Canada smiled, letting a small laugh escape his lips, "That's going to get you nowhere!"

"Oui, but you decided to call Angleterre of all the people." France stated in a questioning yet snarky manner, "Honhonhon, one can only _imagine_ what you two could have been discussing."

All faces in the room flushed other than the wine-loving nation's, who had a devious and self-satisfactory smirk on his face. "Oh, shut up you bloody frog." England murmured, turning over just enough to glare daggers at the one in question, "What time is it anyway? I'm tired."

"Dude, you have been all day!"

Canada pulled his sleeve back momentarily to glance at the time on his little black watch, "It's eleven forty-five."

A universal sound of confusion filtered around the room like a Mexican wave as they glanced at one-another. Today had been tiring enough, so even staying up past ten was agreed to be totally out of the question.

"Oh…" France uttered, lazily pulling the red ribbon out of his hair and discarding it on the coffee table, "Suppose we should go to bed then?"

He got up and slowly trudged like a dead man towards the door, with the rest of the room's occupants soon following behind in a similar fashion. They eventually got to the corridor where all their rooms were situated and begun walking inside.

"Bonne nuit."

"Night night dudes!"

"See ya."

"Ugh, goodnight you bloody gits."

 **So, there we have it guys and gals, we have reached the end of our third story! Yet again, apologies if it was too sappy or a bit on the fluffy side, or if anyone was OOC. Just thought I should mention that England was acting the way he was because, as stated, he's absolutely exhausted and the meeting (amongst other things, such as America's poorly-times phone calls) has completely worn him out. I wanted to link the previous story to this one in some way, so please tell me how I did! On that note, if you enjoyed it, please do leave a review or something like that! As I've already said, I love seeing what other people think my stories and constructive criticism is always welcome too for the same reason (but no flames please, I don't want you to get burnt)! That's all from me for now, so I will see you next time! Ciao!**


	4. The Ten British Commandments

**Hey Guys and Gals, guess who's back with another chapter! A huge thank you to the amazing people who followed and favourited since I posted the last story. I really appreciate it! This one was inspired by a Buzzfeed post which I read a while back, so most of the 'commandments' in this chapter were taken from that, just to clarify in case you were curious. I hope you all enjoy it!**

 **Disclaimer: I still don't own Hetalia. If I did, Season 7 would already be in production.**

 **Without further ado, let's get on with the story!**

 **Story Four: The Ten British Commandments**

You could ask any other European country to try and fully explain British customs, and the most you would probably get was something about drinking tea followed by a shrug of the shoulders. Even _America,_ who had lived with the country himself for ages, couldn't even offer a good explanation. That was how this exact discussion came up when four certain nations where waiting in a queue to grab some medication for Canada.

"England, dude, I don't think it is physically possible to understand you."

"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean? I'm not the one who sells tons of chicken nuggets to a single person, not to mention that they are about as tasteful as your ego. It's just strange."

"And you offering tea to anybody who dares walk through your door isn't?"

"Well yes!" England retorted, running a hand through his hair and looking back at his former colony with an expression which could only be smugness, "It is one of the Ten British Commandments, of course!"

"Ten British Commandments? Mon dieu, Angleterre." France shook his head despairingly, as if he had predicted that this talk would happen at some time, "Please tell me they are not… How you say?" he leaned toward Canada, who whispered something in his ear with a raspy voice and a sickly cough, giving the other nation a sweet smile, "Set in stone?"

"No…" the northern nation sighed and made wild hand gestures as he talked, "They are unwritten rules that you could say are more like _habits,_ number one being," he cleared his throat, "Thou shalt offer tea to whomever walk though thy door."

America snorted at this, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his bomber jacket whilst Canada dissolved into a coughing fit. "You're telling me there are nine more of these?" he giggled between desperate gulps of air.

"Dude!" America rushed forward and grabbed England by his shoulders, shaking him until his head span, "Tell us the rest!"

The dazed country held his head with his right hand to steady himself for a moment. "Do I have to?"

"Yeah."

"Oui."

"Yes."

"Ugh, fine." England began pacing in circles around the group, more than willing to take his time. The queue wasn't really going anywhere anyway, since the person at the front was too busy arguing with the young cashier who had an extremely apologetic look on his face. "Number two: Thou shalt question if anyone wants the last biscuit, only to become distressed when somebody actually does."

At this, America let out an adorable giggle which made his former caretaker suspiciously turn his head to the side to avoid others seeing his face. France raised a perfect eyebrow at this, his mind scheming at the odd action which he would be sure to note down in his diary later.

"Number three: Thou shalt mutter 'You're welcome' disgruntledly under one's breath to the person whom did not thank thee for holding open the door."

"You do that all the time!" America laughed, "But the 'You're welcome' part is usually followed by an endless string of curse words!" He enthusiastically threw back his arms, resulting in him elbowing Canada directly in the chest, causing him to cough profusely. The woman standing behind them whispered a sneaky, "Be careful, my god…" which only France picked up, but chose to ignore.

"Number four: Thou shalt keep plastic bags inside plastic bags inside a drawer in thy house for the time may come when thy shall require three hundred."

"Do you remember what happened last time you opened that drawer France?" Canada asked quietly, a smirk adorning his face. The nation in question shuddered, as if to say a milder variation of, "I've seen so much death…" but somehow still referring to the endless amount bags England seemed to own for some unknown reason.

"Number five: Thou shalt react to all situations with appropriate levels of tea."

France rolled his eyes and let out a long sigh. "Honestly, I still can't believe that is how you sort out your problems. Deleted all the documents on your laptop? Cup of tea. Got hit by a car? Cup of tea with a biscuit in the garden. Just had your entire family…"

"I think we get the idea." Canada calmly spoke, putting a finger to the other nations lips to get him to shut up.

"Number six: Thou shalt mention the weather at least once per day or lose permission to reside in Her Majesty's land."

"You never stop, holy Hamilton!" America yelled, resulting in a slap on the back from his twin to calm him down and an enthusiastic shout of, "Alexander Hamilton!", from a group of teenagers at the back of the queue, "It's always weather this, weather that. When it's sunny you complain about the heat and when it's snowing you complain about cold! It's ridiculous!"

England rolled his eyes and clapped sarcastically before continuing, "Number seven: Thou shalt respond to any query of 'Hi, how are you?' with 'Fine thanks, you?' even if you've lost your job, been rejected by the love of your life, broken your collarbone and have been stabbed fifty-seven times in the chest."

A brief silence fell across the group then as the queue finally moved forward a bit.

"Wow dude…" America began, opening and closing his mouth multiple times like a fish, "That was deep."

England decided to ignore that comment and move on as quickly as possible.

"Number eight: Thou shalt make exceedingly awkward eye-contact with a stranger and not break it until they have left your peripheral vision before cringing in regret."

America nodded in approval of this and muttered a quiet, "True."

"Number nine: Thou shalt complain about the rubbish on the TV but watch it anyway."

"Oui, I think this is probably true for most people." France said solemnly and in an almost unintelligible whisper, "I guess it is only when you have nothing better to do."

"And finally," England announced dramatically, puffing out his chest, "Number ten: one shalt never, ever jump thy queue."

As if programmed, all other British people present at that moment slowly repeated, "Never, ever jump the queue.", before they resumed what they were doing a mere few seconds ago. France could have now sworn that this was the weirdest and most bizarre thing he had ever witnessed. America and Canada silently thought the same thing as their French friend.

England, on the other hand, looked incredibly proud of his citizens whilst he bought and paid for Canada's medicine. He turned on a heel and spun round, one hand on his hip, the other holding a bag full of supplies, his face displaying a self-satisfied smirk.

"And those, my friends, are the Ten British Commandments!"

 **Well, that took me a lot less time than I thought it would! Probably because I didn't procrastinate as much as usual, but still! Anyways, if you enjoyed it, please do perhaps drop me a review or a favourite (they make me super happy!) and constructive criticism is always appreciated! That'll be all from me for now, so I will see you next time! Ciao!**


	5. Sweet Reminisce

**Hey Guys and Gals, CheeseCakeKitty15 here back again with another mini-story! I am so sorry that I haven't updated for ages: I have been ridiculously busy with a bunch of stupid things so I didn't have any time to sit down and write! Yet again, thanks to all the lovely people reviewed, Favorited or followed- it gives me such great motivation and I really appreciate it! I hope you enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: As much as I would like to, I still don't own Hetalia. If I did, there would be an episode where England shaved his eyebrows before going into a meeting (Why and how did I think of that?).**

 **Without further ado, let's get on with the story!**

 **Story Five: Sweet Reminisce**

Not that he would ever admit it, but America now deeply regretted attempting to down seven shots of Everclear one after another at two in the morning and expecting to still be able to walk in a straight line. Safe to say, that plan failed about as miserably as the internet had said so as he ended up tumbling face-first down the stairs, crashing through a wooden door and accidentally trapping himself in the room behind it, all before stumbling around for a few seconds only to pass out with his face pressed up against a spider's nest. Fantastic.

Much later that morning (though America wasn't sure when considering that he had left his watch in the kitchen and there was not a clock in sight), the blond boy awoke to, unsurprisingly, probably the worst hangover he had ever experienced along with a prominent feeling of looming misery which was coupled with exasperation. Upon realising that he could feel hundreds of tiny feet pattering his face, he next thirty seconds of the American's morning then consisted of screaming hysterically as if he were a three-year-old girl, frantically brushing himself down, standing up and throwing himself against a wall in hope that the eight-legged monstrosities would fall off.

He fumbled around for the light switch in the eerie blackness of the room until he finally came across it, flicking it on, then immediately wincing and shielding his eyes, giving them time to adjust to the sudden change in lighting. Upon removing his hands from his face, America could only stare in awe.

The room was large, unkempt with clusters of dusty old boxes and things covered in bubble-wrap, looking like they hadn't been touched in decades. A tall rectangular object stood against the back wall, hidden by a thin white sheet which was grey with age, next to a wooden cradle filled with handmade teddy bears of all shapes, sizes and designs; every single one was unique, complete with outfits and accessories which somebody had clearly put a lot of effort into stitching.

America saw toys and games scattered across the brick floor, suits and coats hung up on the ceiling's low beams by deteriorating coat hangers, cans of spray paint and dye sat on tiny shelves, and looming rolls of carpet were huddled up in the corners closest to the locked door which the boy was leaning on. Almost anything a person could think of was right there in front of him.

He reasoned that the place was a storage room, but certainly not his own: it was too big and twice as cluttered to ever belong to him, to someone who had at least _tried_ to clean it out. Glancing over the contents of what was before him, he put two and two together before realisation hit him like a truck.

He was in the storage room of none other than the representative of the U.K: England.

A smile adorned the blond-haired boy's face as two emotions collided inside of his conscience. The first was fear. What would happen if he discovered something that he former caretaker kept hidden for a reason? England never had liked to dwell on the past, he preferred to push it away and focus on moving forward with himself and his country's future. "What's done is done." He had told America once when he was still under the older nations care, "I can't change what has happened, nor can anyone else. All you have control of is what you do now, in the present, so stop worrying. Let's enjoy today!"

The other emotion was sheer glee. This place was practically a goldmine! The nation rubbed his hands together deviously, an evil glint passing across his glasses, thinking of all the blackmail he could uncover. He pictured himself bursting into a world meeting with a scrapbook of the other boy's most embarrassing, most horrifically humiliating moments and showing him up entirely, though America thought that he had probably destroyed anything that could ever do that to him by now.

Throwing caution to the wind (or the stray spiders in this case), the nation strode forward to the huge rectangular object at the back of the room and yanked off the grey sheet with a single swift movement without even thinking about it. He took a few steps back so that he could fully look at the item, since it was taller than he was, and a million memories came flooding back into his head all at once.

A painting, with a detailed golden frame surrounding it which was glistening under the light, stood in front of him, in mint condition, as if it had only just been completed. The colours were vibrant and beautifully shaded, making it seem alive, making it seem like a pair of lively emerald green eyes were truly staring back at him. The picture was of England, sitting relaxed in a comfy armchair inside of a lavishly decorated room, a gentle and friendly smile on his face, looking as contented as could be. In the background was a curvy wooden table with numerous extravagant vases adorned with flowers of every variety; the stunning chandelier hung from the ceiling and gave its surroundings a regal glow. Out the window he could see rolling fields of gold, clear blue skies and wispy trees.

On the Englishman's lap sat a much younger America, fast asleep in the white gown he had first been found in, his head resting on the older man's stomach with a bunch of forget-me-nots in his hand. Some of the blue petals had fallen onto the long sleeve of England's shirt, who had his arms round the other nation's waist, protectively yet gently pulling him close. There were some more blue flakes on the crimson carpet also.

America remembered when this was painted; he had been in his room drawing when his caretaker burst in and announced that they were going to have a picture done of them together. When he had asked why, England had responded lovingly with, "I just thought it would be nice to have something to remember this time by, don't you think, Poppet?"

"Yeah!" was the joyous reply that he received before he picked him up in his arms and took him to the living room where a painter was already present. They both sat down of the chair together, and he remembered England telling him to stay very still, only for the younger nation to fall asleep within ten minutes. However, America supposed that doing so made everything a lot easier for everyone.

Rousing from his momentary flashback, he picked the dirty sheet back up from the floor and jumped up so he could put it back over the painting. He managed to do so after a couple of tries by making it snag on one of the frame's curved edges, successfully shielding the artwork from any potential harm.

Turning around, he accidentally hit something hanging from the ceiling with his right hand. He looked up and his eyes widened profusely. It was filthy, ripped across the front and back, the silver buttons rusty and stained. It was also small, barley fitting the American when he carefully attempted to put the delicate item on, as if it were specifically tailored to fit a teenager or a scrawny adult.

It was England's old redcoat uniform.

When this thought finally struck him, America desperately clawed at the sleeves to pull the outfit off. He grabbed the collar, pulling it backwards so it would slip away from him. Hanging it back up, he stumbled backwards and sunk down against the wall, his head lolling to the side.

America constantly made an active effort to stay away from things that may trigger any painful memories, despite that fact that he regularly tried to clean out his storage room. The Revolutionary War had always been a big no-no. There was a reason that all remaining physical reminders of that time had been shut away in the darkest corners of his house, never to be seen. At the very least they were all packed in boxes which were inside of more boxes underneath seven other layers.

Apparently, England thought that keeping those moments out on display was a better option. They had never exactly seen eye to eye.

He shifted his leg slightly to get up, but he accidentally knocked something nearby which came crashing down onto his lap. Dust flew into the air upon impact, making him cough and splutter. He felt a large feather tickle the end of his nose and instantly looked down to see what it was, after he finished having a minor sneezing fit because of it.

America picked up the black object to inspect it further, smiling when he realised what it was. Its sides were rimmed with gold and a red rose was neatly stitched onto the side.

England's old pirate hat was something that the tea-drinking nation was quite fond of. He would always tell his young colony enchanting tales of when he sailed the seven seas, of his epic battles fought with swords high above on wooden planks, of his many piratic, romantic escapades, of the storms he miraculously survived against all odds, even when he had been battered, broken and his lungs were filled with salty water.

Looking up, the bespectacled boy noticed a big brown box with 'Pirate Days' written on it in thick black marker. He reached up and grabbed it, setting it down on the floor in front of him, and gingerly lifted open the cardboard flaps to look inside.

It was as if England's pirate past had swallowed him up; he saw a world that had previously been completely alien to him. There were glistening gold bracelets and earrings covered in red and blue gemstones, a silky white cravat with frills and ruffles, a long, sleek silver sword with a gold handle as well as a fancy looking cutlass with beautiful Latin engravings along its blade. A pair of soft, black gloves sat underneath a coal-coloured eyepatch which was neatly tied in a bow at the back, all of which was sat atop a faded yet pristine red coat with posh shoulder pads made of a soft material.

He lifted the item of clothing and saw a vast assortment of powerful and unique weapons. A redwood and golden blunderbuss, a curved flintlock pistol with beautiful designs carved into the silver metal, small volley and pocket pistols lined up, all fully loaded. Several bronze boxes were loaded with grenades which were filled with gunpowder and tar, as well as rags to form a smokescreen when used.

Faded notes and letters were packed against the walls of the box, dried ink now grey and faded. America considered reading some of them, but reconsidered after considering that the content was probably not meant for his eyes to see. He gently stacked the items back on top of each other, before pushing the flaps back down and putting the box next to others of the same name, up high on the shelf.

Suddenly, something caught his eye from across the room. Something long, shiny and silver dangling from the side of another cardboard box with an upside-down cross hanging off the end of it. He stared at it in confusion for a while before curiosity got the better of him and he raced to the other side of the room, yanking the silver chain lightly until it fell into his cupped hands.

It was a necklace made of a dulled metal, tackily chain-linked together, ridden with scratches and splits. The upside-down cross looked as if it had been dragged through the dirt and ashes in England's kitchen.

America briefly glanced up at the box from whence it came and instantly grabbed its sides, pulling it down onto his lap and almost tearing the flaps off in his excitement. He didn't even have to read the black ink inscribed on the side to know what era the contents of this goldmine were from. Neon cans, rhinestone-studded, black leather jackets, hundreds of assorted earrings and seemingly endless bottles of liquid eyeliner; CDs, bottles of hair gel, rolled up posters, jewellery of every kind, ripped skinny jeans- yet again it was like going through a time machine.

A time machine with the destination: _'My Punk Phase'_.

Those were the words messily written on the box's side. This was the treasure trove America had been searching for.

Whatever he found wouldn't have been much use for blackmail, however. He recalled the first time England had sauntered into a meeting late, in full punk attire, as well as having his hair spiked up and dyed green and pink, at least five earrings in each ear, a spike-studded choker and his face all made up. France promptly fainted the moment the Englishman stepped into the conference room, which was then followed by a collective gasp from everybody else. Multiple faces turned away when the man's response to the nations' previous reaction was to snag the hem of his top in between his black-painted fingernails and pull it up to his chest, whilst sticking his tongue out to reveal that it was forked and a silver stud was embedded in each side.

That resulted in a few more countries passing out from sheer shock, most notably (and unsurprisingly) North Italy, before England took his seat next to an unconscious France and kicked his legs up on the table, scattering everybody's notes all over the place.

The meeting from then on wasn't pretty.

America lifted the outfits and accessories briskly from the box and placed it next to him in favour of what he had been yearning to see ever since his former caretaker had eventually decided against burning it. He carefully took it out, brushing dust off the dog-eared cover and reading the title, which shared a name from the box it came from, aloud in a raspy voice.

He turned the cover and first page, taking a moment to stare at the first picture, feebly attempting to wrap his mind around it.

It was of England and several other men, all leant against a heavily graffitied wall with cigarettes hanging loosely from their lips. In the nations arms was his electric guitar, his prized possession. It was curved and spiked on both sides, vibrantly coloured with fiery reds which faded into something akin to a summer's sunset. There were little designs on each side which made it one of a kind.

The very mention of this item distracted him. He glanced over to the instrument, still in its velvet case, before reaching over slightly to grab it. The boy flicked the clasps up, making the case's roof pop open to reveal the stunning instrument. America took each side and lifted it until it was free, before roughly kicking the case away and propping the guitar up on his now outstretched legs, having moved the box and all its contents to the side to make room for it.

He pulled back on each of the strings in succession, listening intently to the small pinging sound they would make when released. The American continued to do so over and over again until he heard banging on the door. Frantic, he shoved the guitar back into its case and abandoned it along with the other punk memorabilia, scampering to the back of the room with his back pressed up against the wall. The assault on the door continued for a few more seconds before it died out completely, being replaced with the sound of somebody fiddling with the keyhole.

His breaths hitched in his throat numerous times as the sound of metals clashing continued on. America could only watch as the door slowly begun to creak open after the sound had stopped, the thought at the back of his mind constantly questioning who or what it could be. What if it was a killer? What if it was a monster? What if it was a rabid animal?

"America? What are you doing in here?"

A sweet and soft voice cut through the silence as the door opened fully to reveal Canada, dressed in a polar bear onesie with a hairpin in his hand. The hood was up, making the nation seem to have little ears poking out just behind his loopy curl, and he looked adorable.

"Um… Nothing…"

Canada put his hands on his hips and raised an eyebrow, "Then would you care to explain to me what are you doing down here?"

"Well, you see, dude," the American began, rapidly making hand-gestures and walking towards his brother amongst all the clutter, "I kind of just woke up here and have no idea what time it is s…"

"It's 2:00pm, hence why I have been sent to look for you." The gentle boy's face then morphed into one of sympathy as he took the other's hand, "Are you feeling rough at all? You had quite a few drinks last night, even before you thought it would be a good idea to do those shots."

"Yeah, I have a stupid migraine that won't go away."

"You'll just have to sleep it off later."

America adjusted his rectangular glasses and clutched his head in his right hand, groaning from the continuous painful sensation as Canada led him out of the room, tucking his hair behind his ear and shutting the door softly behind them. Whilst being pulled up the polished spiral staircase, a thought then suddenly struck his mind.

"Bro, how'd you get in here?" America asked, tugging on the onesie's sleeve, "I couldn't get out. _Are you a wizard?_ "

Canada sighed, rolling his eyes, "No, I just picked the lock with a hairpin."

"Since when can you do that?"

"Living with France does have its perks. I'm ten times smoother than you ever will be, for example."

"Not cool, dude."

When they entered the living room, they were greeted with a peaceful sight and a lovely scent drifting around them like mist. Atop the small coffee table sat an extravagant plate topped with handmade eclairs and tiny pain au chocolates, which were probably the source of the enticing smell that only the country of love could create. Leaning back-to-back on the sofa were England and France, the former carefully doing some detailed needlework of a cute-looking fairy, whilst the latter was casually flicking through a recipe book and taking down names in a little notepad. Upon hearing footsteps coming from the doorway, the pair turned their heads and paused what they were doing only to see Canada practically dragging America along the floor in their direction.

"Good morning, sleepy-head." The Englishman greeted, turning back to his needlework and replacing the thread, "You sure took your time."

"Probably because of the stupid amount of Everclear you drank last night." France added, poking his head over the back of the sofa, "You don't need alcohol to make bad decisions."

America exasperatedly sighed as Canada gave a small smirk, both taking a seat on the arm of the chair. They each grabbed an éclair and nibbled on them whilst watching France continue to flip the book's pages and scribble notes.

"What are you even doing?" the younger blue eyed man asked, adjusting his glasses and leaning so far forward to get a better look that he nearly squashed the Frenchman.

"Noting recipes." Was the absentminded response he received shortly after, "I am going to try them out and see if they perform to my standards. I'm just about done, actually."

He slammed the book shut and tucked it under his arm, before standing up and leaving the room, Canada following him. America dropped off the chair's arm and resorted to looking over England's shoulder to observe his handiwork.

In the kitchen, France opened the book on a page showing a photo of a delicious looking dacquoise as he busied himself by scrambling around the room and reaching in various drawers, seemingly collection every ingredient necessary in mere seconds. He kneeled over to set the oven's temperature when Canada asked, "May I help you?", to which he stood and nodded, throwing a roll of baking paper in the other boy's direction (which was dropped immediately due to the fact that he was definitely not prepared for that).

"Sure, now pick that up and get to work!" a flamboyant accent replied, before he lowered his voice to a much quieter tone and whispered in Canada's ear, "But for the love of God, whatever you do, don't let England in here. Last time he tried to help me, he somehow managed to burn sushi…"

 **I literally had no idea how to end this so I'm sorry if that seemed really abrupt; I don't know what I'm doing at all. Also, I ended up researching about alcohol, pirate weapons and 1970's punk England for ages, and this turned out** _ **way**_ **longer than I intended or expected it to. Again, I am sorry I haven't posted anything in, what feels like, years- I will try and make it up to you somehow! Please do drop me a review or something to that effect; like I said, they give me amazing motivation to continue and it's really nice to see what you think of my story! That's all from me for now, so I will see you next time! Ciao!**


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